


To find his heart in his job

by Maria_and_her_books



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Self-Indulgent, dramatic lack of footnotes, introspective, lets not forget that behind that terrifying mask vetinari is a bit of a nerd, switching POV, tw: torture, vimes and moist ship it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-07 00:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20300281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maria_and_her_books/pseuds/Maria_and_her_books
Summary: Sometimes people manage to surprise you. Sometimes you find something unexpectedly in yourself. Or, Vetinari comes to see his clerk in a new light.





	1. In which you can't con a conman.

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-ed (though very interested in one for this fic!), non-english writer. Please let me know if there are any grammatical errors and such. The wit and wisdom of Terry Pratchett is far far beyond my writing skills, just bear with me on this one.

**Serve me **  
\-----------------

Something was off. 

Moist cast another deliberating look at the Patrician. It looked like him. It sounded like him. But the movements, the movements were off. Well, not so much the movements as the ease behind it. It wasn't something he could point his finger on but it was...wrong. 

Drumknott shimmered in, as silent as ever, handing his master a file before primly taking up his seat at his desk. Moist almost dismissed the clerk's appearance, having long ago established his reserved character as plain and unimaginative and therefor delegated to the background.  
But... he did a surreptitious double-take, was that..maquillage? He changed his position in his chair, feigning to need to uncross his legs and stretch his back, to get a better look. 

It was.

He looked back at the Patrician, who didn't seem to have noticed Moist sudden interest in his clerk's appearance. And that was what really clued him in. It was not the Patrician he was meeting with. And his right-hand man was hiding something. 

He studied the clerk more closely for a moment, unassuming as ever, efficiently working away at the reports that piled up everyday. He'd started to wonder if he was imagining things when Drumknott reached out to grab a file from the top of the stack. There! The cuff of the man's sleeve shifted with his movement to reveal dark bruises all around his wrist.

Now he was really looking he noted the tension in the clerk's posture, like he was working very hard to stay alert and look lively. The whiteness of the fingers holding his pencil betrayed the dead-grip he had on the utensil. For the speed-reader Moist knew him to be, the turning of the page came just a fraction too late. 

Vetinari had always commended Moist for the way he would hit the ground running, his mind bright and imaginative, plotting his course with gleeful,exhilarating shrewdness when the stakes were high, and before the man who was most definitely not the Patrician had finished his sentence, Moist turned towards the clerk and asked, "Does Commander Vimes know?"

"Excuse me?" 

And that was all the confirmation Moist needed. 

It was Drumknott who had uttered the question and the other man in the room was silent. Moist glanced at the black-clad figure. Not the menacing raised eye-brow of a deadly tyrant interrupted, no, merely a quizzical one. 

It was Drumknott's stare which commanded attention in the room and Moist dismissed the black-clad figure, addressing the clerk once more, "Does Commander Vimes know that you have replaced the Patrician?"

The clerk was silent for a long moment, clearly pondering something very carefully. Moist waited with bated breath, anxious to see whether his gambit worked out.

"He does."

And Moist worry increased tenfold as the prim and proper clerk slumped and buried his head in his hands. After a few heartbeats the clerk seemed to have composed himself once again and in clipped tones he told the man who was called Charlie to leave them till further notice.

The click of the door seemed deafening loud and off-kilter Moist blurted, "He isn't dead is he?" He dared not imagine the city without it's benevolent tyrant and breathed out in relief when the clerk shook his head. "He is...indisposed."

They stared at each-other for along while, the clerk clearly unwilling to disclose more. Moist burning with curiosity and worry.

"I want to see him."

"I'm afraid that is quite impossible mr. Lipwig."

Moist smile was shark-like, "That was not a request mr. Drumknott. I want to see him."

"Or?"

"I'll think of something, I'm sure."

He saw the clerk weigh the options in his head, the secret was out, the next step was damage control. While Moist remained in this very room the truth was still guarded. The moment he stepped outside he'd be an unknown quantity.

Moist knew Vetinari had plans for him. He was safe for now he thought.

"I'll put your request to him."

Moist crossed his legs, "I'll wait there then."

He was quite impressed by Drumknott's glare. Stiffly the clerk reached for a speaking tube, "Commander Knox, on no account is mr. Lipwig to leave the Patrician's office. And by that I mean alive. "

Moist gave the man a pleasant smile. 

"Wait here," and the clerk disappeared.

\-----------------

"Ah, mr. Lipwig, I understand you requested to see me. What is so urgent that you had to threaten my secretary?" It sounded mild but there was a steely undertone in those last few words.

Moist glanced at Drumknott who stood next to his master's chair. The cracks in his bland mask more obvious the longer Moist looked. The clerk looked... worried. Tired. Stressed.

He looked at the Patrician, cocking his head as he studied him for a long moment. The same commanding presence as ever, his posture imposing. His hands folded in his lap. 

"Your continuing good health my Lord."

Moist knew better than to dare smile ingratiating and he was rewarded by a gracious nod. 

"I am as you see me mr. Lipwig." It sounded patient. For now.

-Hands folded in his lap- Moist look was dragged back to them. The cuffs covering the Patrician's wrist neatly in that position.

"I dó see my Lord."

A raised eyebrow for the impertinence in Moist tone. A look indicating that Moist better get to the point fast. 

Moist took another look at the secretary at Vetinari's side, "I did see. The light is less forgiving in your office my Lord, you need a lighter tone of concealer for your secretary." 

Blankness for a long moment, then a smile as bright and deadly as lightening flashed,

"Well done, mr. Lipwig," it was uttered very quietly.

And where lightening was, thunder followed. The brightness and his shadow. Inseparable.

A forbidding rumble, "Do not dare to expose my secretary."

"I don't intent to expose my Lord, my intention is to aid."

"And yet you forced his hand."

Moist was slightly surprised by the, dare he say it, concern for his secretary but dismissed the thought as inconsequential for the moment,

"To aid you my Lord. I understand that you need to appear invulnerable for the continued rest of the city. And your stand-in is quite convincing. But it seems to me that he is taking is ques from your secretary my Lord." Moist looked at the rigid clerk at the Patrician's shoulder, "And you, mr. Drumknott, seem to be running ragged."  
He held his breath, awaiting his fate.

The answer came faster than he expected, "We graciously accept your offer," Vetinari cast a quick glance at his secretary's defeated looks, "Commander Vimes expressed the same concerns."

\-----------------


	2. In which Vimes receives a package.

With Mr. Lipwig getting the post back up running smoothly mail deliveries were fast. But the clacks still were faster on some occasion. Or nearly as fast. And that is why Vimes was still staring at the contents of the package that was delivered to him this morning when a runner arrived with two urgent messages from the clacks. One plain and simple, telling him to read the next one without delay, signed of by the Patrician's personal secretary. The next one coded in a cipher designed specifically for correspondence between the Patrician and the Watch Commander.  
With uncommon patience he had decoded the message. Then he'd tucked the clacks messages and the contents of the package in his shirt, making sure that there was not the slightly chance at losing them.  
He'd gone to the palace and had calmly requested an audience with the Patrician. He'd determined that he was talking to Charlie, had found Drumknott conspicuously absent.

He'd stone-faced walked back to his house, closed the door of his study behind him, locked it carefully, sat at his desk, spread out the messages and the contents of the package before him. He looked at the iconographs that had been enclosed.

And then he'd swore quietly but expressively, creatively and extendedly. 

How in the gods names could this have happened?!

\------------------

_Highly esteemed mr. Vimes,_

_We humbly require a moment of your time. We are concerned for the continuing well-being of your brother. As you can see in the enclosed iconographs, he is in quite a dire state of health and the sum of 300.000 AD would surely ensure him surviving these unfortunate circumstances._

_A blank cheque with the requested amount, send to postbox number 132, Brass Neck, Lancre, would safeguard your brother's return to his beloved family. _

\------------------

The iconographs, though black and white, were of a very high quality. You could clearly see the small details. 

The violent bruises on arms struggling in the restraining crushing grip of two trolls.

The blood flowing in sickening trails from horrifying lash marks on a lean chest and pale back.

The ire burning in eyes that Vimes knew to be icy blue.

\------------------

He put the iconographs aside and read the decoded message again which contained a detailed set of instructions. First of all was not, under any circumstance, to open a package, which originated from Lancr, that might be delivered to his house.

It had come too late and he'd seen what the sender clearly had wanted to keep secret.

Furthermore it instructed him to rendezvous at a train-station 10 miles from Ankh-Morpork on the next day. He'd to come alone and bring a carriage. 

He'd failed the first order, he sure as hell would deliver on the second.

\------------------

He'd spoken to Sybil. He needed her with him on this. She'd demanded to see the iconographs and cried for a moment . Then she'd squared he shoulders and had started to gather supplies and make preparations. She'd smiled at the staff as she told them she and her husband would go out of town the next days and they'd have the time off to go and see their families. She'd handed them gifts to take to them.  
She'd reviewed and restocked her medicine cabinet, re-purposed a sheet by tearing it into strips and neatly rolled them up as bandages. 

His loving, practical wife. Vimes held on to her through the night, to keep her safe. To keep him safe. 

\------------------

The two of them left in broad daylight. Four returned under the cover of dark. Three of them working together to bring their precious charge into the house. Into safety. 

\------------------

They had told him some of it on the journey back. A covert diplomatic mission, a lethal trap set in a valley. The guards had been killed. The occupants of the carriage taken hostage. A gang of kidnappers who were astonishingly unaware of who exactly they had in their power. They'd taken him for a noble going by his number of bodyguards. They obviously made a living out of it, the whole business seemingly routine to them.  
They'd only asked for his name after they'd stripped and whipped him, or rather, the name of a wealthy relative who would pay his ransom. 

Vimes had listened silently, Sybil clutching his hand all the while. He looked at the two of them. They might not have recognized the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork by face alone but they would have known the name. Everyone knew the name.

"So you told him to send the note to me, told them you were my brother." 

"Drumknott did." 

Vimes had looked at the clerk, solemn-faced and pale under his bruises. The man had been Vetinari's personal secretary for a long time. Vimes had met him hundreds of times. He'd struck him as someone with no discernible character. Had, foolishly, inferred that it meant that the man was born to fade into the background, had no real personality of his own. 

But he'd send for help right under the kidnapper's noses. Made them write a letter detailing their crimes and where-abouts and on top of them had them pay for express delivery and all. 

Vimes complimented the man on his ingenuity and startled when Vetinari had laughed, actually laughed, sounding a little manic.   
Vimes had wondered for a moment if the man had snapped but seeing Sybil's worried face the Patrician had quickly sobered and explained that had just been the start of Drumknott's inventiveness. 

\------------------


	3. In which Vetinari is surprised

He had not been able to think. They wanted a name, someone to pay his ransom.

He'd remained silent, white hot pain clouding his mind. He had not been able to think. Had not been able to come up with an answer that would get them out of there alive. He'd feigned, though in all truth there had been very little acting involved, to be too far out of it to answer the question.  
He'd drifted in a haze, concentrated on getting from one moment to the next. 

Drumknott had waited for half a day to make sure that the package was well underway and irretrievable and then his clerk had demanded to speak to the ringleader. He'd told them about a man who had made Ankh-Morpork a prosperous and thriving city, a man whose continuing existence was highly valued by many many powerful and wealthy men. How several countries were relying on him to keep the peace. He'd laid out, in very fine detail, what would be done to the persons who'd harm this particular man. How they'd ruthlessly be hunted down when the truth came out.  
Which would be in say half a day. When the package containing the details of their deeds would reach the Patrician's terrier.

They'd been terrified, convinced of their imminent swift and inescapable death.

Drumknott had offered a deal, a letter, written by the Patrician, ensuring a safe passage to Genua or Khaan, countries which had no extradition contract with Ankh-Morpork, in exchange for their freedom and two horses. 

And they'd taken away Vetinari's chains.

Vimes had taken one look at the darkness in Vetinari's eyes and firmly decided not ask where those foolish men were now. 

Vimes had not asked where the money came from that had enabled them to send those clacks and pay for their return to Ankh-Morpork by train. To buy a physician's silence.

They were men who understood each-other where the ugliness of the world was concerned.

Even so, Vetinari didn't think it would strike Vimes as funny that during the whole ordeal Vetinari had been most surprised by his own secretary. 

He had been: the man had been magnificent, all restrained fury and clipped commands. And Vetinari had never seen it coming.   
He cast a surreptitious glance at Drumknott now. The anger had seemed to burned out, had consumed too much of him, now he simply looked tired. Sitting upright next to him as if they'd simply gone for a ride through Ankh-Morpork. Posture still proper, not even a hint of a slouch, even though his face was haggard, pale with dark shadows under his eyes. Eyes that hadn't met his since they'd...left. 

A slight tremble in the hand next to his own. Vetinari did not know who was supposed to gain strength or security from the closeness of their hands. Not quite touching but... there. 

Real. 

Safe.


	4. In which Vimes thinks about loyalty and love

Sybil had taken charge when they returned home. She'd ordered Havelock to come with her, she'd send Drumknott to take a bath, her voice brooking no objections. Generations of Ramkins fighting for king, country and richess, mainly richess, had a worthy heir in her. Vimes had meekly followed her order to look after 'that brave young man' after she'd denied him to assist her while she took care of poor Havelock's wounds. 

Vimes had walked in on the prim and reserved secretary he'd thought he known while Drumknott was in the bath. The man had been too wearied to be properly affronted.  
Vimes had looked at the vicious bruising on his wrists. The boot-shaped blackness on his ribs. Thoughtless cruelty to a bystander, the violation of someone caught in the fringes of brutality aimed at another. Not the first time this man was hurt on behalf of his master, he idly thought.

He'd gruffly remarked that no man deserved such dedication. And Drumknott had given him a look.

Not dedication, Vimes thought, something else, something that ran far deeper. And somehow he hadn't been surprised.

He'd tried to reach out in his rough, awkward way, offering that would Drumknott ever need an out, a quiet place to nurse his broken heart...

The shutters had slammed down, Drumknott had stiffened, realizing what he'd given away. Even without his suit and tie he'd been every inch the inscrutable clerk again, shields firmly in place.

And then, after a tense silence, he'd slumped his shoulders, had rubbed a hand over his face, "Does he know?" It sounded small, utterly defeated. Vimes did not insult him by asking who 'he' was, instead he pondered it very carefully, thinking about the things his wife had told him over the years about Vetinari's youth, his upbringing.

"No, I do not think he knows. He is good at the great picture, the logic, planning and all. But feelings? No, he does not know." 

Vimes knew better than try alleviate the tension, to joke that Vetinari did not feel in the first place. After the whole king with the Dragon King he'd had a talk with Vetinari. A proper and honest talk. The bleak outlook of the Patrician on his city, on humanity, it had rattled him.

Vimes knew himself to be a cynic, a suspicious bastard, always prepared to discover the worst in people. The world had proved him right over and over. But it had also proved him wrong. His Sybil, his little boy.. There was compassion and light and joy; he did not only see it, he lived it, basked in it's warmth. 

And he wondered whether Vetinari did. Experience the good the world did have to offer. The kindness, wonder, love. If there was anyone he could share with. Be himself with.

The world was harsh and bittersweet. No one should have to walk it by oneself.

Vimes looked at the beaten but still defiant figure in the bathtub. Considered the lengths the man had gone through in the past few days. Thought about the things he himself had gone through to get back to his loved ones, to keep them safe.

Love.

Who would dare to approach the Patrician? Would dare to wóo the Patrician? 

No, not the Patrician. And that was exactly the crux of the matter. 

Havelock. 

First one had to see the man behind the reserved and distant tyrant, to not be blinded by his terrifying power and strength of will.

And this unassuming man did, worked in that stifling, paralyzing setting, the office where many a man, and woman, dared to tread, and seemed nonplussed by it, unafraid. Appeared to be content, nay relish in it. Always at the Patrician's side, dutiful, devoted. Vimes had seen him predict his master's requests, follow his line of thought, always the needed information at hand.

Drumknott had looked Death in the eye and had told Him to get his paperwork in order, otherwise Havelock would not be His. He'd risked his own life coming up with that bluff. Had taken Vetinari from hell and brought him home.

Vimes owed him, them, this, on the off chance that something good could come out of this ordeal, 

"No, Vetinari does not know. Not because it isn't something he would want. But because it is something he has never had." 

Vimes blamed the scratch in his voice on the lack of a decent cigar for the last few days. The tight band around his chest too. 

"Thank you Commander," Drumknott refused to meet his eyes and Vimes was relieved by it, afraid what his own might betray.

"I'm going to set up a bed for you in the same bedroom. I'll state it as a security measure."

Drumknott nodded gratefully, his relief at not having to let Havelock out of his sight clear.

Vimes left. He wasn't a man made to talk about feelings but right now he wanted nothing more than hold Sybil and Sam in his arms.

\-------------------


	5. In which Vetinari thinks about deer or something

Alternating between scolding and crying Sybil fussed over him, tenderness bleeding over in her businesslike changing of his bandages. Vetinari thought that this was what is would feel like to have a sister.

He'd let her boss him around, the care settling him a little. She was an excellent nurse, practical and conscientious. He didn't protest the the sedative draught, welcomed the blissful numbing effect of it.  
After a lengthy lecture and the most carefullest of hugs she'd tucked him into bed, almost ordering him to go to sleep.

A vague smile on his face he watched her clean up the room, rightening the world. Only interrupting her work to intercept his clerk.

Muzzily he likened his secretary to a deer in the headlights as Sybil ordered him to take of his borrowed nightshirt so she could make sure his ribs weren't broken, merely bruised. Drumknott cast a quick look in his direction, caught him looking, then stiffly followed her orders. 

Vetinari's drowsy mind pondered the lack of headlights in places where deer usually lived, wondered about the idiom and which ethnicy had brought it to Ankh-Morpork. The etymologic query distracted him and when he turned his attention back to the room, Sybil was rubbing ointment in the abrasions on Rufus' wrists. Rufus had his gaze averted and Vetinari thought about asking his opinion on woodland creatures and the modern ideas about the merits of visibility during nighttime. 

His meandering thoughts were halted in their hazy tracks when he noted the jagged scar which curved around Rufus' shoulder. One could say it was ugly, he supposed but himself chalked it up as a testament to the astuteness of his decision to let Igors practice their trade in his town. There was no doubt that Rufus would have lost control over his left arm had they not done their restorative work. Of-course his right-handed formal script was passable but Rufus would have been so highly uncomfortable doing his work in a less than perfect manner.

They were good shoulders, Vetinari mused while drifting off. They were steady, all smooth creamy skin and dependable and there was an interesting smattering of freckles on his right shoulder-blade.. 

He slept.

\----------------


	6. In which Moist gains some insight

Moist returned the next day in a more covert way, no need to raise questions with an increased frequency of audiences with the Patrician. Drumknott had ushered him via hidden passages to the set of rooms where Vetinari was staying.   
He found the man sitting next to a fireplace, a dressing-gown over his nightly attire, a warm blanket in his lap.  
The fact that Vetinari hadn't gotten dressed, had put on his armour, before Moist had come in, spoke volumes of the trust Vetinari placed in him. It was strangely humbling to see this vulnerability.

Moist's sharp eyes noticed a certain restraint in Vetinari's movements while they drank tea and discussed the states of affair in the city, saw the hint of bandages under Vetinari's white nightshirt. 

He came to understand why Vetinari bothered with a stand-inn, the man was clearly in pain, restrained in his movements. Moist speculated on the extend of his wounds, wondering what had happened.  
He delicately tried to ask but Vetinari merely answered that he made the grave mistake of thinking everyone knew who he was. The raised eyebrow warned Moist not to pry into it any more.

Properly chastised Moist leaned back, finally took a good look at his surroundings. He tried to put his finger on what felt off about it. His eye fell on an iconograph, a man, and a woman who clearly was his sister: they had the same warm smile, dimples and all. Not that he had ever seen the man smile like that but, "These are Drumknott's rooms, aren't they?"

The Patrician gave him a gracious nod and some pieces fell into place for Moist. Vetinari had had Charlie take his place and was recuperating in secret. Judging by the extend of his wounds it would take some time and he'd need someone at hand, to take care of him. Even in the sanctity of his own head it sounded..wrong to Moist. The Patrician was in absolute control all the time, invulnerable.  
Whatever had happened, no one in the palace knew about it. So Charlie was probably living in Vetinari's rooms.. But why was Vetinari here, why not recover somewhere remote and more secluded?

Vetinari was watching him calmly, patiently waiting for him to come to some conclusions and Moist thought about the talks in the city about a new trade pact with Genua. It was a delicate matter considering their previous dealings with that country and only a very skilled diplomat could... Oh.   
"You need to attend those meetings with the consul of Genua, they can't be postponed."

"Well done mr. Lipwig," the appreciating smile made it seem like the highest compliment Moist had ever received.   
Still he didn't see how he could... "How can I assist my Lord?"

And there were the steepled hands, a sense of normalcy was restored, "I am unfortunately more dependant on mr. Drumknott than I had estimated. He needs to rest sometime, I'd like you to fill his position while he does."

Moist had seen the toll it took on Drumknott, still... But Vetinari halted his train of thought, "Not to do the actual administration of course, to keep an eye on things while the both of us are out of office. Or to assist me on occasion. I trust you on the astuteness of your appraisal of situations, you'll be able to run interference or send for one of us if our presence is required."

To have earned this praise, this trust, Moist felt like he was soaring over an abyss. Vetinari trusted him not to take advantage of his vulnerability, deigned to give him insight in his plans.

"I'll work out a schedule with mr. Drumknott my lord," he made to get up but froze when his proposed course of action met with a sharp, "No."

Wide-eyed Moist looked at the forbidding countenance of the Patrician who continued, "No, not with mr. Drumknott. Right now I can't rely on mr. Drumknott to make reliable decisions about his own health. His actions clued you in that something was amiss after all."  
The words were cold but when combined with the preceding insights there was a significance to them. This was not about Drumknott making mistakes. This was...concern? Moist musings were interrupted as Drumknott himself entered after announcing himself by a soft knock on the door.

Once more he was wrong-footed as Vetinari gave his secretary a dazzling smile, "Drumknott, we were just making arrangements to grant you time to recuperate." Moist was slightly peeved to see Vetinari hand Drumknott a draft of a timetable he had not been consulted on. His grudge was soon forgotten as he got a good look at the clerk's face.

Drumknott read the proposal carefully, his face clearly starting to display his displeasure the further he got. Moist took in minute tightening around his eyes, the clench of his jaw, the hint of dismay as he reread the outline. 

Finally he neatly folded the paper in half and met the gaze of the Patrician head-on, "My lord, this will not do, I do not need this much time off. "

Ye gods, he actually dared to contradict Vetinari. The man looked bone-tired, ready to faint and still he dared to argue this decision. A distinctly mulish look on his face. 

The measured, "Drumknott" did not stop him, did not even halt him, "Are you dissatisfied with my work my lord? Do you not trust me to.."

"Drumknott."

"My lord, did I not bring you back to Ankh-Morpork? Have I not proven my.."

"Drumknott!"

Finally the secretary heeded the dangerous tone of his master's voice and fell silent. The mutinous set of his jaw was clear however.  
The Patrician pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed, "This is not punishment Drumknott. You need to rest, your actions clued mr. Lipwig in that something was amiss. You're in my care Drumknott and you wíll take time to recover."

It sounded final, leaving no room for argument and yet Drumknott raised his chin defiant and took a half-step closer towards the Patrician only halted when the man softly continued, "I'm concerned about you Rufus."

The quiet admission was what it took for the clerk to yield to the proposed leave of absence. 

For a moment his mask fell away and Moist saw the exhaustion, the stress, the hurt at being found wanting. 

Such devastating devotion, Moist had to look away.

Vetinari's words finally registered with Moist: Drumknott was in Vetinari's care. That was quite something else than in his employment. Suddenly he wanted to be far away, he had no right to intrude on this private moment. 

He started to inch towards the door but the spotlight of the Patrician's gaze pinned him in place, "Ah, mr. Lipwig, I expect you'll commence your duties tomorrow morning, bright and early. Do adapt some appropriate persona will you."

Drumknott turned on his heel, "I'll show you the way mr. Lipwig." Once again the consummate professional but it seemed to Moist that every breath the clerk was taking was painful to him. Too controlled, too centering.. The man was on the verge of falling apart it seemed.

Meekly Moist followed him.

\-----------------------


	7. In which Vetinari managed to keep things even from himself

** Love me **  
\----------------

On the first day in the office Moist had discovered that the kitchen staff only brought in food for two. He'd questioned Charlie about it and the double had shrugged, had told him it had been like this from the start. He ate his dinner and mr. Drumknott put his own aside for later. Not that Charlie had ever seen him eat, apart from the biscuits that came with the tea-trolley.  
Vetinari had confronted Drumknott about this and had learned that Drumknott had taken his own dinner to his master. Had cited that the kitchen-staff would note it if he'd started to ask for another helping.  
In a warped way it was sound reasoning but to actually starve oneself while working overtime, surely the man had understood that it wasn't healthy to withhold nourishment from a healing body?

The stubborn tilt of his chin had indicated that Drumknott hád been aware of the detrimental effects but had placed Vetinari's well-being above his own. And had no regrets about that foolish choice. 

No wonder the man had looked like he could faint at any moment. 

Vetinari had en-tasked Moist with smuggling in food after that confrontation, an undertaking the former con-man seemed to revel in. Apparently a successful sleight of hand was more satisfying than infiltrating the top-layer of Vetinari's staff somehow.

\----------------

Drumknott had but the one bed. He slept in it during the nights, Vetinari during the day. He'd never needed much sleep in the first place. He worked through the night when there was much paperwork which needed his attention. Otherwise he read.

Drumknott's scent still clung to the sheets when Vetinari himself settled in his bed. A light woodsy smell, not unpleasant. Comforting in it's familiarity somehow.

\----------------

As the days passed Vetinari had not only had to cover up Drumknott's bruises but also the shadows under his eyes. This close they were a charming grey, even dulled by fatigued as they were.

He didn't know what Drumknott was thinking these days. He had always been able to deduce some of it but ever since they'd... left that place it seemed like the clerk had shut himself away. He was blank and it was unnerving. Worrying. His eyes didn't meet Vetinari's anymore. He'd always met his master's stare freely, many a man had been afraid to do so, but never Rufus who wasn't afraid of what his master might see. Vetinari had always supposed that it had something to do with a guilt-free conscience.

Drumknott looked tired. Attentive as ever to Vetinari's wishes or needs, conversing freely about the state of affairs in the city. But they hadn't touched upon what had happened. 

Each night Vetinari's sharp ears caught Drumknott's restless movements, his tossing and turning. The sharp intake of breath as he bolted upright from what Vetinari supposed were nightmares. He listened to Drumknott's unsteady breathing and shaky sighs. He did not know how to broach the topic during daytime.

He didn't know how to offer comfort but he'd taken his work to Drumknott's bedroom to keep watch over him during the nights. He woke him up from his nightmares, pretended to be engrossed in his reading to save Drumknott from further embarrassment. That he could do at least. 

\----------------

Drumknott slept, his breathing slow and steady. In the quiet of the dark bedroom it was soothing, comforting. 

It made Vetinari's brain still, made him re-asses a truth that had perhaps not been the whole truth after all.

Vetinari had always appreciated his clerk's no nonsense approach at life. Not a philosophical bone in his body. Drumknott was practical. He managed to temper Vetinari's more sombre moods, often offering a plain, grounding comment when the world seemed dark and life a pointless struggle. 

He'd pulled Vetinari from the edge of the abyss more than once by reminding him there was work to be done, bridges to be build and improved on over the bottomless gaping chasm. 

Together they worked tireless on the improvement of their beloved city and it's sustainability in the long run.Making sure that it would keep running, even under a more lenient government. They enjoyed constructing safeguards through mountains of paperwork and new, watertight laws. They delighted in the cleverness of certain turns and phrases in the treatise they wrote. 

Vetinari had concluded years before that Drumknott did not do his job for prestige or riches, he did it because he enjoyed the intellectual challenge. Because he loved the city as much as Vetinari did. He knew every inch of it, heard about every conspiracy, had details about every community and committee in it. Could draw a detailed street-map from memory.

Drumknott was not afraid to question Vetinari on his motives or ask for clarification of instructions. Or give his opinion. In hindsight Vetinari had never been able to change Drumknott's mind when he truly believed in something.  
Vetinari hadn't had to maintain his terrifying image, where silence was his weapon. No, he had always been able to speak freely with him, could make observations freely and idly go of on tangents. 

Vetinari always thought it had made Drumknott the perfect right-hand man. But now Vetinari started to wonder... 

Paperwork long forgotten he contemplated his secretary, watched him unguarded while Drumknott slept, exhaustion finally having caught up with him. 

He considered the aesthetic of the hollow of Drumknott's throat. The peek at a collarbone. The soft blonde hair curling and falling in his eyes. The deceptively delicate looking hand resting on the comforter. 

Vetinari had learned that there was an unexpected strength in it, Drumknott's grip firm and unwavering as he'd guided his master out of... No. That place firmly stayed in the past. He was here, now, secure in the warmth of Drumknott's rooms.

His eye fell on the still bruised wrist, the elegant bones of them usually hidden. 

Drumknott was always properly dressed, never dishevelled. His only concession to the sweltering heath of last summer had been to take of his suit jacket.

Vetinari had never quite understood superficial and empty allure, had never been one to judge a book by it's cover so to say. But seeing Drumknott, no, Rufus, in this new light... One where he was not only attractive as a companion on cerebral level... Vetinari's gaze got drawn back to those long fingers, the eyelashes shadowing a cheek that by all means should no longer be mesmerizing. The daily sight of it over the last couple of years should have made him familiar with it, common enough to no let his mind dwell on it. He remembered the starbust of freckles on his back, the shift of muscle under smooth skin. The pale scar curving around a shoulder...

To linger on it now was strangely compelling, a bewildering want in him to trace it. 

A damning craving. He was well able to keep his affections for his secretary hidden, even from himself, could pass them off as intellectual appreciation. Seeing Rufus this unguarded however, this soft, it stirred something in him. 

Vetinari wondered how long this attraction had been building, how long he had dismissed it as something else. 

He remembered being quite put out when Rufus had gone with Moist and had fallen in love with the trains. The interest in machinery and it's progression and development had been something they had shared. To have Rufus go off with someone else.. Show his enjoyment to someone else. Discover something new with someone else. In hindsight his feelings had been quite something else, something that could possibly be labelled as...jealousy? 

People always wrote about love like it came all of a sudden, like unsolicited being struck by lightening, or a knock in the teeth.

But now Vetinari wondered whether it could also come as an old friend at one's side, comforting and thrilling with quiet familiar ways.

He never did finish his paperwork that night, his mind pre-occupied by more important, life-altering questions. 

\----------------

Vetinari found their shared domesticity surprisingly enjoyable. He'd started to draw Rufus a bath after his shifts in the office, it was something he could provide for, a small amending offer that helped to drain all the tension of the day from his secretary and Drumknott always emerged bright-eyed and refreshed. Cheeks rosy, blond hair slightly damp. A smile and small-talk while they shared whatever meal Moist had managed to smuggle in. 

During he evenings they passed paperwork back and forth over Rufus' private desk. It was much smaller than the one in his office and their feet kept knocking into each-other, their hands brushing. A casual physical contact he hadn't experienced in the last decade. For who dared to touch the tyrannical ruler of Ankh-Morpork? The last man who had done so while inebriated he'd sent guards with, to keep him from committing suicide after sobering up and realizing what he had done. 

Rufus kept touching him. Had he done so before? They must have but Vetinari couldn't recall an instance when handing over one report or another where their fingers had touched. 

Drumknott changed Vetinari's bandages twice daily, Sybil had instructed him and he'd proved himself quite adept at the task. Secure in his knowledge: what to look for and how to aid. Eyes still avoiding Vetinari's but calm and concentrated as he assessed the healing process of the lesions. 

His deft hands gentle but sure, precise in their movements like he was in all things he did. Sometimes Vetinari let his eyes linger on those hands. Followed their trail just for a moment as they cautiously smoothed ointment on his newly healed skin. Watched as they delicately held a fresh compress in place as Rufus secured it in place. Those long fingers skimming across his chest, hands warm on his shoulders .

Drumknott always helped Vetinari in his shirt afterwards, fixed his collar. He did not have to, Vetinari was not that restricted in his motions that he could not dress himself. And Drumknott knew that. But still he did so. And Vetinari never commented on it.

Still he wondered about their comforting, almost devoutly tender touch. And he wondered...

And Vetinari found himself surprised that he enjoyed the closeness to another human being. That he felt safe while being vulnerable. 

He felt cared for, soothed.

He thought about Rufus' care. 

He wasn't used to people caring for him, about him, looking after him. 

Madame had raised him, distantly, only coming into the picture when his skills became useful. 

Lady Margolotta had instructed him, had been his foremost master when it came to the skills of persuasion and diplomatic warfare. 

Vimes and him had come to an understanding, and also to the understanding that they respected each-other and their ways. Not quite friendship. 

Sybil was his friend. He'd known her for a long time. But she did not understand or care for his work, his passion, no matter how much she cared for and worried about him. 

Wonse had understood his work, his vision, had worked beside him for years but he had betrayed his trust. Had cared more about his own riches and prospects than Vetinari's life.

Love was a topic he did not know much about, at least not first hand. But he'd read about the ways to communicate it, through words and deeds, time well spent together. 

To share his life with Rufus, always have his company after hours, to let that warmth bleed through in his personal life, it was strangely compelling. 

He wondered if it would be possible to have it all. 

Understanding, respect, friendship. Love?

\----------------


	8. In which Moist manages to out-manoeuvre the two of them

Lord Vetinari had invited him over for a game of Thud. Moist had never played it before but grasped the idea swiftly. Strategy, that he could do. And strategy was what the Patrician was teaching him, Moist was under no illusion that they were simply playing a board-game. He wondered what job he was being lined up for, no doubt it would be interesting, entertaining. Lethal too.

At the moment though, he was suspiciously slowly losing a game of Thud. Vetinari was steadily recuperating from whatever it had been what had ailing him. Sure, he still couldn't work full days, wasn't able to keep up appearances for more than an hour in mixed company. But Moist had learned that his mind was sharp as ever. So his health was not the reason that he wasn't fully invested in the game. 

No, not hís health, Moist finally realized, Drumknott's. 

The secretary had valiantly tried to stay awake but exhaustion had caught up with him and he'd fallen asleep in his chair, book in his lap. 

Moist caught the way the Patrician looked at his clerk and...

Oh! Ooh. 

"Does he know?!" his mouth once more faster than his awestruck brain.

The threat in the raised eyebrow, the icy gaze leveled at him... Moist prayed to all the gods that would listen that he would be allowed to say his goodbyes to Adora. 

"No," quietly but no less formidable, "no, he does not know. Nor is he to find out." Vetinari did not feign to misunderstand Moist on this, did not want any part of it to be unclear about it. He sounded cool, composed, a plain statement about how things were going to be. 

Moist nodded mutely, fear thrumming through his veins. Vetinari looked at him for a long moment then nodded. He focused on the board between them, seemingly pondering his next move and Moist finally dared to breath again. 

"I am not someone to be loved." 

Moist head whipped up, his eyes wide. Vetinari's eyes were fixed on the game as he continued in that same matter of fact tone, "His company and loyalty are enough, I won't ask for more from him, won't force this. He would be lost to me, our relationship changed, damaged beyond repair. No, it would only lead to loss and ruin in the end, feelings are dangerous. Messy."

Moist knew he was staring but this bleak outlook, this lack of expectation of feelings to be reciprocated...

Human, he understood all of a sudden, Vetinari was very human.

And alone.

And clearly in a bad state, seeing how he had let slip that he fancied Drumknott simply by looking at the clerk. Oh gods, the words fancy and Vetinari in the same sentence... 

Some of his realizations must have showed because Vetinari flashed him a sharp mirthless smile, "I have his company, what more could I want?"

It sounded almost wistful and Moist was horrified to hear his mouth quip, "Kissing is quite nice too." 

All thought and self-preservation had apparently left his mind, leaving the more space to fill with paralyzing terror. 

The Patrician gave him a look.

But Moist still didn't miss the quick flicker of Vetinari's gaze. The split-second he looked at Drumknott's mouth.

And Moist thought about angels.

\------------

Mr. Fusspot had as always been ecstatic to see Moist in the office and was now blissfully curled up on his lap. Moist cast a quick glance at the clerk who was working away at his desk.

"You'll need to find another lap soon Chairman," he made sure his voice, though seemingly intimate, carried and as expected Drumknott looked up, "Excuse me?"

Moist feigned surprised, "I don't think Lord Vetinari will require my services for much longer. I can not assist him with the final thing he needs."

Drumknott looked rather perplexed, "What final thing that he needs?" Moist was rather gratified to see how the clerk flinched at the grammatically unsound question he'd posed and taking advantage of the brief moment of disequilibrium Moist played his card, "His heart." 

Drumknott's paled in consternation and Moist, at little too late remembering the literal mindedness of the person he was speaking to, hastily continued, "He needs his heart. Or your heart. Do you really not see it? See how he has entrusted yóu with it?"

Drumknott's mouth worked silently for a moment then he sputtered, "I do not hold his heart! How could he...could I....I'm not worthy!"" Moist was taken aback by the vehemence, listened to Drumknott deeming himself lacking, found wanting. 

He never protested the assertion that he loved Vetinari but he did pose the question what it was hé could offer Havelock. 

"Love," said Moist quietly, "Your love. He is human like that. We all want, need, to be loved. What are we without it? What is the world without it? Will you deny him that? Deny him your love?"

And he had gambled correctly, Drumknott was quite offended by the insinuation that he did Vetinari wrong. Moist smiled to himself. There was the fiery, unexpectedly brave, fiercely loyal man he'd come to know, come to admire in a way. He could leave this to him.

\------------


	9. In which Rufus comes to a realization or two

**And mend **  
\-----------------

The soft brush of Vetinari's gentle fingers as he applied the make-up covering the bruises felt like a tender apology for the pain inflicted on Rufus on Vetinari's behalf. Again.  
Rufus suffered through the whole bliss of Vetinari gently tilting his chin up to get a better look at Drumknott's face. 

Rufus staunchly avoided looking his master in the eye, his face probably already giving too much away. No need to add the humiliation of his fanciful thoughts to his embarrassment. He couldn't help but blush but his master graciously didn't comment on it.  
Rufus focused on a sharp cheekbone, on the warmth of Havelock's steady breathing on his cheek. 

\-----------------

They slowly healed, Rufus bruises faded to an ugly yellow.

But the underlying wounds, those of the soul, they did not heal as easy.

He had nightmares. 

Him, the man many accused to have no imagination at all. 

Vivid and horrifying, their claws deep in his chest as he bolted upright in a panic, cold sweat and quite out of breath. His lord went through an ordeal but it was him who was plagued by the grim images. He, who got out with some minor bruising. 

He was mortified to find his master at his bedside time and again, his shameful weakness for him to see. Lord Vetinari woke him up but was clearly at a loss after that. Rufus was a burden, disgracingly weak, quite unable to overcome this failing.

He'd almost resigned himself that this would be his fate for the rest of his days when one night his master woke him up, and, instead of silently handing him a glass of water as usual, asked him about the contents of his nightly terrors.

Shakily he'd exhaled, gathering his scattered thoughts, "You, my lord." He knew that tilt of that dark head: interest, curiosity. 

"You died. Horribly," his words a mere whisper as he shamefully confessed, "because I did nothing."

A slow blink.

"But you díd do something. You saved my life Rufus," there was a note of genuine confusion in his master's voice.

"It took me so long to come up with a possible solution, I'm so sorry my lord." Rufus had never felt more wretched as when admitted this failing. The kidnappers seemed to have sort of forgotten about him, had chained him up and left him. He'd seen what they did to his master. And is mind had been blank with terror. No, not blank, swirling with scenario's in which Havelock died, over and over again.

"I'm so sorry I failed you my lord," tears were pricking his eyes but he refused to let them fall, his disgrace, his utter weakness was out in the open, he was not going to let them add to the indignity. 

There was a crushing drawn out silence, then a huff of disbelieving laughter, "Rufus. Rufus, you treasure. I thought you were impervious to melodramatics."

That stung and despite himself Rufus couldn't help but glare at his lord. It had a satisfyingly sobering effect on the man he had called master for many years. The icy blue eyes warmed noticeably as his lord sighed, "You did not fail me Rufus. Quite the contrary, I think I failed you. You're always so astute in your observations, I thought... but.. how could you have this so wrong?!" Obviously noting Rufus' dismay Vetinari hurried to continue, "You saved my life Rufus. You do realize that, don't you?" 

He had what? 

A heartwarming smile, genuine and just for him. A repeating of a statement, something the Patrician never did, "You saved my life Rufus. You. I did not see any way out, I would have died there had it not been for you. You were the one who held all the answers, you were my saviour."

"But you would have thought.." Surely he was just gently letting him down, tried to soften the blow, ease the gut-wrenching guilt.

"No, I would have died. And then they'd have killed you. Yóu were the one who got us out, got us home. You were magnificent Rufus. You áre magnificent," there was nothing but earnesty in his voice, truth in the fierceness in his eyes. 

Had he had it wrong?! His master had stated it as a fact. Rufus was wrong. He hadn't failed his lord. He had delivered him, had steadfastly and devoted proved his loyalty, the length he was willing to go to keep this man safe. 

The enormity of his misconception sunk it.

"People have been made lord for less, you realize that Rufus, don't you?" there was a distinct teasing tone to it.

"I don't want a title," it came out reflexively.

He didn't want...

He wanted to stay at Vetinari's side. At Havelock's side. Who had been here, with him, through it all. 

Who had chosen to stáy with him in the aftermath.

Not his master. Not the Patrician of Ank-Morpork. But the man whose life he had saved. Who he had been desperate to survive. The man who had let himself be seen at his most vulnerable. 

Who trusted Drumknott with his weakness. 

Who had allowed Rufus to come close, who had become aware of his love, his desires, though seemingly quite at loss with the feelings and connotations of it himself. 

And this Rufus could do. He could guide Havelock here. They could do this. Together. 

Him, at Havelock's side. As always.

The realization dawned slowly. He'd reject all the treasures of the world to stay at Havelock's side. 

And finally Rufus allowed himself to contemplate pursuing the man he had loved for a long while now. Giddily and terrified by the prospect he mused that this was something he knew more about than his master, where he would have to lead. 

But if Havelock chose to follow.. to join.. would want to learn...

Now guilt and fear no longer clouded his sharp mind lined up all the evidence. 

He thought about the awkward gruffness of Commander Vimes at Rufus' defeated question whether Havelock knew about his feelings. Thought about Havelock's actions in the last few weeks. He thought about Moist confronting him about Havelock's... Rufus'... their hearts.

And it was crystal clear.

Yes, Havelock did want this. Did want a them. But he did not know how to go about it.

Rufus looked at the man he loved. Sleep-rumpled, alive. 

Yes, Rufus knew how to go about it.

\-----------------


	10. In which Rufus discovers the difference between interest and interesting

They were back where they started, Moist and Charlie dismissed from their temporarily positions. 

Just the two of them in the Oblong Office.

Rufus found the Patrician standing by the window, gazing out over their beloved city and silently came to stand beside him, familiar in the position as they'd stood like this countless times over the years. 

And yet, not quite so familiar. "How much has changed," Drumknott finally quietly remarked, "and still, how much stayed the same. We're here again. But wé are nót quite the same are we?"

Unwavering he kept staring out over the city, the weight of his master's gaze resting heavily on him for a long moment. And then, as his lord began to turn away, Drumknott looked at him, "There is a secret I no longer want to keep. That I want you to know. Need you to know. We may never speak of it again but I will no longer stay silent. Not after I nearly lost you."  
The Patrician refused to meet Drumknott's eye as his secretary continued, "This is us, always looking at the other, but only when one of us looks away. Will you look at me my lord?"

"Rufus," it sounded almost pleading but those blue blue eyes found him, pierced through him, took away what was clear in his eyes. Flowing from his heart. Recognized it for what it was. And just for a moment, the tiniest moment, Drumknott saw it answered.

Oddly calm Drumknott said, "And now you've seen it."

He waited a heartbeat in the spotlight of that eviscerating look. There was a silence. And usually when there was a silence around lord Vetinari someone had the urge to fill it. 

But this time it was not Drumknott. No. It was Vetinari himself, "Drumknott.. you mustn't.. I don't want you to feel obliged to.."

Vetinari fell silent, words, his weapons, failing him for once. He preferred not to lie if he could help it. He did not want to lie to Drumknott. Did not want to claim not to want. When he wanted. 

"Do you think so little of me, my Lord? Do you think I do not know my own mind? My own heart? You trust me to know your thoughts, to predict your requests. Yet on this you do not trust me?"

And there it was, trust. Drumknott knew how to read his master, did not miss the minute tightening of his jaw.

"You give so much to this city, you give away so much of yourself. But you are slow to accept. Cautiousness has been your counselor for a long time, and it served you well. You are wise to be wary of grand gestures and unsolicited gifts. But how about this for an allowance: a trade. We are good at those, our contracts are always watertight. No unexpected catches. 

Will you trade me then? A heart for a heart?

Do not claim to not have a heart my Lord. You guard it well but I have seen it. I was there when you learned about the deaths of Mrs. Easy and little William, I saw how it hurt you.." 

Vetinari flinched,remorse in his eyes and Drumknott halted abruptly. He did not want to bring pain, to poke at the guilt of a lethal oversight that had left a never-healing wound. On the contrary, he wanted to bring... 

Drumknott swallowed dryly, then finished his suit with not a waver in his voice, "You already have my heart." 

Said heart beating wildly in his chest, he watched Havelock, watched his brilliant logical mind work.

He waited patiently. He knew his lord. His Havelock. He knew logic would not help him when it came to the matters of the heart.

And there it was, those blue eyes focused on him, "Love me? Why?"

It wasn't a question, not really. Drumknott smiled at the note of uncertainty in Vetinari's voice,

"It's the wrong question Havelock. Not why. How. I can go back to loving you silently, as I've done for years. But it would not be silent anymore, would it? You would know."

Drumknott dropped his tone, "You would see it. You would hear it." 

His smile grew, a wicked note in his voice, "And you would wonder.."

He leaned in slowly, his eyes never leaving Havelock's. Now he looked down, just for a second, at Havelock's mouth.

And then Rufus looked up, his gaze once more steadily meeting Havelock's.

And he licked his lips.

And there...

There it was. The confirmation of what he had hoped for, longed for.

The flicker of Havelock's gaze. The dilation of his pupils.

And Drumknott whispered, "And you would want."

\---------------------

"How?" It was no more than an exhalation, Vetinari's eyes burning. Rufus heart sang.

"Like this," His hand came up to gently cradle Havelock's jaw, to tilt his head just a little so Rufus could close the distance between them and brush his lips against Havelock's oh so softly.

Just a brief kiss, light but sure, and then he drew back a little, fingers still infinitely tender in their hold, thumb stroking a sharp cheekbone.

Havelock's eyes had fluttered shut. He stood docile in a way he never was. Breathed satisfyingly shaky for a moment.

One heartbeat.

Two.

And then those blue blue eyes snapped open and Havelock surged towards him, hands coming up, one firmly between Rufus' shoulder-blades, drawing him closer, the other burying in his blond hair, "Oh, not quite like that Rufus." 

A light dancing in his eyes, a mischievous smile with just the tiniest hint of apprehension. 

"I'm willing to revise my motion, if properly persuaded," Rufus countered, not even remotely trying to moderate his smug expression.

Waiting.

Waiting.

"Then I think it would be well worth to explore a variety of alternatives. Give them a thorough examination and compare notes on the rewards of following up on certain results?"

That was definitely a teasing line of he heard one, and Rufus goaded just a little bit more "I think it best to get on with it Havelock, seeing how this testing should prove to be rather time-consuming, even when applying your usual vigor and inventiveness to all possibilities. So many options, one would not know where to start."

"I think we'll start here," it came clipped, almost impatient.

And finally, finally, Havelock leaned in and proved to be a fast and thorough student. Painting his overture in firm, sweeping, in-dept strokes. 

Rufus eagerly accepted the invitation and then forgot all about administrative related phrased flirtation. Though he had the last lingering thought that there was a pun about taking interest going to waste.

\---------------------

Some time, well, a lot of time later, Rufus laid back, slightly out of breath and delightfully sore, only to find a moment later fingers entwined with his, Havelock bringing their hands up so he could kiss Rufus' wrist once more.  
A sparkle in bewitching blue eyes and a murmur clearly conveying how pleased the speaker was with himself, "Now tell me my dear, how is my review coming?"

"I may have to sleep on it, but I have to concede the results are very satisfying thus far." Rufus smiled at the heated look it earned him, yelped as strong hands pinned him in place and a long lean body settled on top of him. 

A hot mouth kissed his neck, teeth lightly scraping tender skin, "Allow me to illustrate my intentions more in dept and leave a lingering impression of my claim," a sharp pleasure bloomed briefly, the sting of the sharp nip soothed by almost apologetic soft kisses.

Rufus moaned as that devious mouth wandered lower and lower...

Well, let's say there wasn't much sleeping done.

Some things, or someone, did get done on the other hand. And that certainly was rewarding. 

\---------------------

"You need lighter tone of concealer for your clerk, my Lord."

Drumknott's hand flew up to cover the love-bite on his neck while glaring at the Patrician.

Vetinari merely smiled serenely at Moist, "Do not let me detain you. Please do send in Commander Vimes when you leave."

\---------------------


End file.
